


Violent Sun

by pensivecowboyemoji



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enabran Tain's A+ Parenting, Episode: s05e14 In Purgatory's Shadow, Episode: s05e15 By Inferno's Light, Hugs, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Panic Attacks, What if the writers had thought about the emotional implications of these episodes, kinda canon-compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 18:15:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29157993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pensivecowboyemoji/pseuds/pensivecowboyemoji
Summary: How had he not known? Here he was,hisJulian, flesh-and-blood human, exhausted and scruffy like he’d never seen before, when he'd apparently been dining with an imposter for over a month now. It's a little funny, to be honest (a rare occasion). He’d noticed a shift in Julian's attitude towards him, noticed how he'd been less argumentative and cut their lunches short. But, ever self-absorbed, he had interpreted it as an ending of their pseudo-courtship.
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 13
Kudos: 84





	Violent Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Once again i couldnt think of a title so. Taken from "violent sun" by everything everything. It's very garak, i think. give it a listen if you'd like.
> 
> the premise of this was: Julian needs a hug. he really does. he deserves a hug. sometimes i cry thinking about him. can you believe he comes back from a prison camp after being stuck there for a month because his friends cant tell the difference between him and a changeling. and gets outed as an augment a week later because his parents cant tell the difference between him and a hologram. 
> 
> content warning for desciption of panic attacks due to claustraphobia, flashbacks, past child abuse and some mild self loathing. what can i say, garak really needs therapy.

"Doctor- a-'' _are you alright?_ It’s a stupid question to ask, and he cuts it off before he embarrasses himself.   
How had he not known? Here he was, _his_ Julian, flesh-and-blood human, exhausted and scruffy like he’d never seen before, when he'd apparently been dining with an imposter for over a month now. It's a little funny, to be honest (a rare occasion). He’d noticed a shift in Julian's attitude towards him, noticed how he'd been less argumentative and cut their lunches short. But, ever self-absorbed, he had interpreted it as an ending of their pseudo-courtship. And to think how distressed he had been! Combing through memories of their lunches anxiously, searching for when it had gone wrong. He’d enjoyed the ambiguity of their relationship, flirting with the idea of flirting. Did the Doctor feel put upon, trust violated in another strange ritual of honesty humans seemed to value so much? Garak had made his intentions _quite_ clear during their first meeting, to either human or Cardassian (lascivious complements were a very universal, if inelegant method of indicating interest, and judging by the scandalised looks two of the Bajoran nurses gave him, what he’d meant- what he _wanted_ , was clear.)  
They'd never talked about the new distance, Garak too insecure and uncertain to bring it up lest it ruin what was left of their fragile friendship. Julian had cut their thrice-weekly lunches back to the original one a week later, and he felt pathetic for looking forward to their brief half hour of interaction as much as he did. And he tried. He really did! To tamp down his argumentative nature (it wasn't _all_ flirting, he did enjoy some platonic back-and-forth, it kept the mind sharp) and be as polite as would make Bashir happy, make him _want_ to be around Garak longer. (Half an hour for three weeks. Half an hour for three weeks!)  
He was frustrated, of course. And that's why Bashir's appearance on the runabout had been such a welcome surprise. The warmth he felt at Julian’s smug expression, phaser levelled at him. Memories of the holosuite incident resurfaced, a weapon so different and yet so similar. _Sentiment_. he tamped them down, plastering a smile that felt more genuine than he wanted or intended.   
And the shame, at seeing Julian stumble through those doors, shock at their appearance written clearly on his face.

The prognosis is bad, to put it plainly. Tain's as good as dead, but it doesn't stop him from insulting Elim every chance he gets. He wants to snap. _What, old man. Still not good enough for you? Will anything I_ ever _do be good enough for you?_ Some part of him wishes he'd never come, but his sentimentality (his _damned_ sentimentality) is grateful. His dear Julian, who he missed without ever realising he was gone, will be safe. He can certainly get them out of this mess, if only for the doctor’s sake.  
Maybe that's what Tain had meant. 

They take a walk about the compound, Garak seething in hushed whispers about Tain's selfishness and lack of gratitude- when Julian touches his arm.  
Garak looks up, and (selfish) regrets his lack of courtesy ( _s_ _elfish_ ).  
"I’m sorry to interrupt you but," Julian's voice is barely a hoarse whisper, "is it alright if you gave me a hug?"   
He’s suddenly overwhelmed by feelings of guilt, elation and soul shattering concern for the human who suddenly seems so fragile after all his straight-backed, square-shouldered bedside-manner confidence.

He opens his mouth to- well. whatever could be said is most certainly _done_ much more succinctly. So gently, carefully, he wraps his arms around julian. One arm around his waist, the other slanting up his back, fingertips resting against the segment of exposed skin between the collar of his turtleneck and hairline.  
Julian sags against Elim’s shorter frame with a noise akin to a whimper (only picked up by his poor Cardassian hearing due to their proximity), both of his gangly arms wrapping around his waist. he shakes a little, and Elim feels awfully exposed in the dim light of the empty corridor they stand in, woefully underprepared for the situation, and afraid of the strange emotion twisting his stomach. He opts to stretch his fingers up and comb them through some of the short hairs at the base of his skull and let out a few reassuring shushes.  
Julian sniffles, and Elim feels a sudden warmth on his shoulder as the young man shakes apart in his arms. 

They stand there for an unknown amount of time. It feels like a second and an eternity of searing warmth through his three layers of clothing, arms that feel so fragile and so strong, Elim dragging his fingers through Julian's hair over and over, feeling him shake and wishing, _wishing_ he could do more, somehow.  
Julian heaves in a breath, and that's about all the warning Elim receives before his arms unwrap and he straightens up, letting out an embarrassed little chuckle, seeming lighter than he did before. "Sorry."  
_You have nothing to be sorry for, my dear_ , is what he wants to say, but the words stick in his throat. Instead he pulls out a handkerchief from one of his pockets and gently wipes the tear tracks from Julian's cheeks.  
Their eyes meet, and he feels uncomfortably exposed again, like he's on the surgical table and Julian's eyes are the scalpel. He turns away and walks back to the barracks, Julian in step beside him.

Martok exits the barracks, and Elim is suddenly fatherless all over again. The loss stings more than Tolan’s death, but he doesn't cry. He let Julian stay, desperate for someone else to know Enabran’s shame, to not be _alone_. To replay Julian’s vulnerability with his own.

Dinner is a communal affair. It’s some grey-white mush, with chunks of something (Julian had shrugged at the question) thrown in. It's not particularly appetising, but it's that or starvation. They eat on long tables and benches bolted to the floor, and the spoons and plates are made with some flimsy white polymer. Nothing that could be weaponised against their captors. Smart.  
Elim feels exhausted. The whole day had been draining, and Julian’s gentle eyes are a comfort and an affront. He can feel the pity radiating from the Klingons, each having clapped him on the shoulder and proclaimed that Tain had been a brave and noble man, and died with honour. He nods amicably. How little they knew. His headache from where the Jem'Hadar had knocked him out with the butt of his rifle has returned with vengeance, and he only manages to choke down half of the gruel before it threatens to make a reappearance. He slides the bowl over to Worf, and stands, ignoring the worried glance Julian sends his way.   
He intends to go back to the barracks and sleep. They’ve agreed to put their escape plans on hold until tomorrow, and he needs to be well rested to deal with whatever they'll do. He needs to get Worf and Julian away from the station. He knows enough about Martok that, if it came to it, he’d sacrifice his life for the others. The Romulan woman, he’s less sure. 

However, sleep is a fickle mistress, and evades him. He’s awake when his inmates creep back into the room, finish their conversation quietly and lie down to sleep.  
If anything, he's _relieved_ that Tain's dead. It’s a horrible, selfish relief, glad that his callous words cannot cut him any longer, that he can’t close the metaphorical or literal closet door on him again. He worries about Mila, like he always does. How to break the news, wondering if the house feels too big with all it’s empty rooms and dark corridors, if she's lonely, if he'll find himself with yet another pretend father.   
The body lies on the other side of the room. He keeps watching it, searching for a twitch that’ll give the game away. He wouldn’t put it past him to fake death, keep quiet and cold and still, to wait for Elim to fall asleep before doing what he should have done years ago.

He slips out of the barracks moments later, panic blurring his vision. Maybe if he finds a dark corner, somewhere to hide away until morning, when they can dispose of the body, Tain won't find him. Ironically enough he finds himself in the dark corridor where he stood with Julian earlier that day, back pressed against the cold concrete of the wall, arms folded around his legs, forehead pressed to his knees. He can feel his breath shudder on every intake, and growls in frustration. He’s better than this. He saw him die, he _did._ Maybe he should have checked, wrapped his hands around his neck for a few minutes until he could be certain.  
He falls asleep, huddled in the corner of the corridor.

He awakes to a kick in the ribs. Two Jem’Hadar soldiers leer at him, hauling him up and shoving him back to the barracks. His cellmates watch, alarmed by his sudden reappearance. One of the soldiers snorts derisively. “Caught him sleeping in a corridor.” The other laughs, and they turn and leave.  
Garak clears his throat, his hands raising defensively. “I was simply having a look around the compound. They almost caught me, it was the only thing I could think to do.” He smiles blandly, hoping it’d be enough to appease them. Martok shrugs, turning back to the group. He ignores Julian’s questioning frown.  
They explain the plan. He’s to crawl into the tiny ( _tiny_ ) gap between the walls and perform the alterations in near darkness! He’s almost glad when they get called into the main hall, the dark entrance of the crawlspace gaping and pitch black in his mind. 

Fucking Dukat.  
That utter _fucking_ bastard.   
He’s upset that Cardassia, the _imbeciles_ running her, have fallen so far. Treaty with the _Dominion_ , little better than joining the damned Federation! And to accept _Dukat_ as their leader!   
Not to mention, being able to leave and return with the _Defiant_ in tow provides everyone with far better odds than relying on him to be able to complete the work. _Preparing for failure, Elim? I taught you better than that,_ Tain sneers. He ignores it. Tain's dead, evacuated out into space. He's not there.  
Jokes and the random electric shocks only work so well to distract him, and when Julian closes the airflow, panic seeps in. He can only work for a few more minutes, barely hearing the reassurances through the wall, before his hands are shaking so badly he can’t do anything. He’s frustrated at his weakness, frustrated at Julian’s concern and insistence of rest. _Rest._ What good does any of it do when others are in danger? 

He’s back in the wall before long, and the panic wraps its icy hand around his heart sooner than before. _Elim,_ he hears Tain say, _I'm doing this for your own good. Let this be an incentive to do better, next time._ He's shoved into the closet again, barely enough room for his growing body. Barely enough air for his heaving lungs. He doesn't cry in there, not anymore.

No. He's not seven anymore. He's fourty-seven, in internment camp 371, and Tain is _dead._ He just needs to do this _._

His brain doesn't seem to get the memo. It recalls images of Tzenketh despite his best protests. Trapped under rubble, the Wire had kept him in a giddy haze. It was probably why he hadn't died.   
He was dragged out a day later, bones shattered and still bleeding sluggishly. A medical marvel, the doctors had puzzled, wondering loudly as to why he looked like them but had none of the arrangement of organs, why he was missing the Zuzyx bones in his crushed forearms and the ninth transverse rib   
He’d been transported out onto a cloaked ship that night and operated on for thirty hours. Not that he remembers any of it, Tain had lectured him on his sloppiness, lamenting that he hadn't left him in that hospital to die.

No. He needed to focus. He's better than this, he's fourty-seven, he's in internment camp 371, and people are relying on him. Ziyal is relying on him. Julian is relying on him. Martok and Worf are relying on him. He just needs to get this _done_.

The light goes out.

He's on Tzenketh, having gotten caught up fighting one of the armed goons that was _supposed_ to have been knocked out by the gas they sent through the ventilation system. She's much bigger than Garak, who was still lithe in his youth. He’d just gotten the man down when he feels the first rumble beneath his feet. He starts running towards the window, intending to defenestrate himself and rely on his team to get him back on the transport.  
He makes it halfway.   
The floor collapses beneath him, and he falls.

“Garak.”  
Julian’s hiss was quiet, but it breaks through the fog of panic that surrounds him.   
“The light went out.” He gasps, desperately.  
Julian’s eyes are warm, "I know," he replies, curling an arm around Garak’s shoulders and drawing him into the light.

He relives it, over and over. Fighting. Falling. Trapped. Fighting. Falling. Trapped. He barely registers the doctor’s hand, finger pressed once again to his temple to check his pulse, but he grabs for it, the warmth of the skin grounding him. He presses the back of it to his forehead, and feels a light, dragging touch through his hair ( _Proto-feathers_ , Julian had called them. _Like the ancient Dinosaurs on Earth had, once. They’re hollow! It’s incredible, would you mind answering a few questions about them? Tain’s medical database is sorely lacking in information._ )  
He’s brought back into reality when Julian whispers: “Elim, I’m sorry. Worf’s hurt, I’ll only be gone a minute.” and the blessed warmth of his hands are removed. He shivers. The three men are talking between themselves, but Julian’s quiet, “We have to come up with a new escape plan” spurs him into motion again. He sits up with a sigh.  
“That won’t be necessary. The original one will work, I just have to finish what I started.”  
It comes out sounding more like a death sentence than anything else, but it’s of no importance. He’ll complete his mission, just like he did on Tzenketh, just like he has every single time. 

And finish it he does. They're back on the runabout, and he's tapping the coordinates for the wormhole into the autopilot before he’s fully reformed, the pinch of half-there fingers sinking into the plastic of the runabout's interface, adrenaline rushing through him. He hears the Doctor direct the Klingons into the quarters at the back of the runabout as he finishes, sees the Romulan woman slip into the second pilot's chair, and they're off at warp eight back to Deep Space Nine. From one prison to another.   
Julian calls out to him, and he spins around in his chair, standing and drawing Julian into a frantic embrace. He’s laughing a little hysterically, and the vessel seems smaller than it did on their way in, but they're alive. They're safe. He'd done it.  
_There you go, Enabran. Just the revenge to work on, now._

**Author's Note:**

> hiiii...... please drop a comment and/or kudos if you liked!  
> you can find me on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/zer0-pharaoh) i like to make stupid posts about alien physiology or whatever.  
> thanks as always to dan for reading this and telling me i did writing good :3 sorry for then rewriting half of this. what can i say. im a scorpio.  
> drink some water and take your meds (if you haven't already)!


End file.
